Logan huffs a breath, shaking his head with a sheepish smile. “That tracks.”
I nodded, but I didn’t smile back. “I guess I must’ve looked upset, because she sat down beside me and asked what was wrong.” I blink down at my hands, suddenly ten again. Small. Hopeful. Heart wide open. “And I told her… I was upset because you hadn’t asked me to marry you yet.”
Logan lets out a low, stunned laugh, full of disbelief and something else—something tender.
My cheeks flush, even now.
“I asked her if you were in love with someone else, because I hadn’t seen you give daisies to anyone else, and Papa always said you only give flowers to the woman you love.”
His hand tightens around mine. Gently.
“And what did she say?” he asks, voice rough.
“She said…” I swallow the lump that rises. “She said, ‘Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.’”
I finally glance over at him. His blue eyes are glassy in the warm light.
He whispers, “Mac…”
“I never told Braden,” I say. “It felt like something just for me. For us.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. “I should’ve asked you that day.”
“You were ten.”
“I was in love with you,” he murmurs. “Even then.”
The truth hangs there between us, old and familiar and brand new all at once.
He kisses my forehead—soft and tender, like I’m still the girl with the daisy in her hand and the world at her feet.
Logan’s still holding my hand when I speak again, voice quiet in the stillness between us.
“You’ve always been there, you know?” I turn to face him fully. “In every memory I have… you’re stitched into it somehow. Like you were sewn into the very fabric of my life before I even knew what that meant.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
“I used to think it was just comfort… just history,” I whisper. “But it’s more than that. You’re… you’re part of me, Logan. Like the spaces in my soul were shaped to fit you.”
His chest rises with a shaky breath, but I’m not done.
“This… us… it might feel new. But it’s never not felt right. Even when everything else fell apart—you being there never did.”
Logan doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. He just cups my face with both hands and presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed, like he’s breathing me in—like the words I just said filled some quiet ache in him he didn’t know was still bleeding.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.
I shake my head softly. “You always have.”
“I’m gonna go check everything—make sure the power’s still running, water, heat, the phone connection... you know, the works,” he says, glancing around like the house might surprise him with a burst pipe or a blackout. “I know you’ve probably had everything sorted, but I need to see it for myself.”
I smile. “Of course you do.”
He leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head before moving toward the hallway. “You want me to order something? There’s that old pizza place over on Maple that still delivers. I could set up a movie or—if you want to take a bath, I’ll run one for you upstairs. Or we can just head up and deal with everything else tomorrow. Not everything has to be done at once.”
He pauses like he’s trying to gauge what I need most. And somehow, the answer is all of it and none of it at the same time.
“I’ll go up,” I say quietly, rising from the couch. My body’s still healing, and the ache lingers in places I forgot existed, but I want the comfort of my old room. My space. And him.
